A Different Light
by diamondpearl876
Summary: AU: Apollo Justice is a wealthy, famous defense attorney who holds his own. Klavier Gavin, on the other hand, is poor, has little prosecuting to his name and spends his time singing songs for sketchy places. The two eventually meet up and, arguably, learn more about each other than they ever could have expected.
1. Chapter 1

Everyone has to start somewhere. Apollo Justice was no different. As a brand new defense attorney, he was given a chance to prove himself in court.

It didn't last, of course. Nothing does.

It started out innocent enough. Protect the client, expose the witness for her various lies. Mysteries began to show up, but he shoved them off for simple explanations. Missing cards? Obviously the killer took them—for a reason, no doubt. His client, Mr. Wright, had a daughter? And according to Mr. Wright, he'd see her someday? He hoped not.

"This is certainly a… unique cross-examination." His boss had pointed this out rather matter-of-factly. He was too sure of himself and his poetic sense of humor. His words had crime written all over them.

He was soon accused of murder, the bastard. What motive did he have? How could he do this to Gavin Law Offices, and all the past clients he had ever stood for?

"You know even I'd never take a joke this far," Mr. Wright said. As a well known ex-lawyer, people expected him to speak the truth. Apollo believed in his client, for if he couldn't, he knew he had to quit there and then. It wasn't an option; his secret ability, though he was unaware of it, told him so.

So—what was he supposed to do? Lose his first trial shamefully for the sake of a potential murderer? He thought not.

"This isn't about loyalty… This is about the truth!"

There was sincerity in his voice, and two fateful meetings shortly thereafter: one in the judge's chamber, and one with a little magician girl who, again, he hadn't hoped to meet.

And there were accusations flying around. Evidence being shown. Sweat and tears and fury brought tension to the sacred room.

Eventually… Finally. There was forged evidence (which he only learned after the fact, but still), and a not guilty verdict. A win, and—

And a swift, goddamn punch in the face to the one who almost ended his career in an instant.

xxx

Klavier Gavin hadn't expected such a rough start. His parents had always said the real world was brutal, but—come on, what was _this?_

He had always been called a genius. At first, he thought it was a farce meant to boost his self-esteem, but then people outside of his family confirmed it. Students at the Themis Legal Academy told him he could amount to anything. His idol, Constance Courte, told him he had the most potential out of anyone—and he wasn't even her student!

When he pleaded to participate in a court against Phoenix Wright at the age of seventeen, he was denied. He was told he'd get harshly beaten. Told, blatantly, that he'd fail. He didn't ask again, not even after graduation.

He was twenty-four now, and he wasn't a genius. He was a man who could fake intelligence by devoting all of his time and attention to the things he loved most: law and music.

Yes, he went to school for law, but it wasn't getting him anywhere. Times were rough for those without experience—this was why he had tried to gain the experience while he could! That one fateful trial had seemed to determine the rest of his life. No chief prosecutor wanted him, not even Wright's rival. But they couldn't say why other than the idea that law wasn't where his talents lay.

If law wasn't his life, then music was. He had a myriad of toy instruments by the time he was two-years-old. Forget trucks and action figures and video games. The guitar was his focus. In time he learned the chords, melodies and notes, and soon, whole songs. He performed at birthday parties for a small bit of money, and he wrote songs for his crushes in hopes of capturing their hearts.

In fact… he was still doing it. He was still playing for money. While looking for a job. …He had wanted to be a prosecutor first, a musician second.

What had happened to his plans, his dreams? Oh, he was living his dream now, almost. It was so close, anyway, yet out of reach. He was dead set on getting to where he thought he should be.

xxx

Two years had passed. Klavier was twenty-six, Apollo, twenty-four.

Apollo had been through Hell and back, it seemed. After much deliberation, he decided to work for the same man who had forced him to present fabricated evidence to the court. He came to respect Mr. Wright, even saw him as a father figure of sorts, and he wouldn't trade Mr. Wright's daughter, Trucy, for anyone in the world, but he felt that he could do… better.

Phoenix Wright was known for forgery. For bluffing. For… turning things around. Yes, he sought the truth, but it wasn't enough for Apollo.

He started setting up online profiles. Created his own business cards, put his name out there for potential clients. He set aside money to move out of the Wright Anything Agency—so correctly named, it was—and he purchased his own apartment and a small office not too far from his friends.

It wasn't hard to get clients, seeing as the amount of reporters hounding him after the Kristoph Gavin trial was insurmountable. His boss had been the best of the best, after all. How did it feel to see your boss in chains? Why did you betray your boss the way you did? People wanted to know.

And, boy, did things get ever worse when he worked for Mr. Wright. With the ex-lawyer's reputation, his own morals were brought into question. Some clients came to him because they didn't know about Mr. Wright's past. Others came to him because they expected him to win the trial at all costs. When Apollo was able to prove he could win trials fairly and justly, his popularity skyrocketed in the newspapers, on television, and so on.

He had money, he had fame. Murder and crime still followed him. He brought down people with great jobs, such as Daryan Crescend (who was musician first, cop second, it appeared). In addition, he met Kristoph Gavin in a later trial, having to punish him once again. He faced off against the great Miles Edgeworth, and somehow won, which only boosted his name and face to not only the judge, but to the whole state of California. And he couldn't forget his best friend, Clay Terran, being murdered for the sake of his own dreams. He hadn't moved on yet; all he could do was continue to be the lawyer Clay knew he was destined to be.

Still, not all things had been bad. He took a trip to Germany with Mr. Wright and hired an employee in the process. He had gone to assist Mr. Wright in learning about foreign legal systems (and, really, Mr. Wright needed the money to travel), and he had found her instead. She was young and capable, and Apollo liked that. She also had knowledge of psychology, which Apollo lacked. He knew it, knew it in his heart of hearts—because he couldn't understand his former boss, or anyone, not even himself—and so he recruited her without a second thought.

He was asked to come back to the Wright Anything Agency once, after Mr. Wright retrieved his attorney's badge through the help of Mr. Edgeworth, who was now Chief Prosecutor. Apollo refused, but he offered his investigation services nonetheless. He helped the dark age of the law come to an end, and in the process, he helped his worker, Athena, and her long lost friend, Simon Blackquill. One was cleared of charges regarding murdering her mother, and the other was saved from execution. Apollo couldn't have been more proud of himself and his flourishing career.

Klavier, on the other hand… had been watching Apollo from the stand. He didn't mean to be a stalker, but the man had intricate ties to his family and friends. Kristoph was his brother, and Daryan was his childhood friend. Kristoph was supposed to be there until the day he died, and Daryan… Well, there was talk of starting a band, but they could never agree on how serious they wanted to be, and Klavier wasn't into being famous or well known. He supposed that now, it didn't matter.

And after all this time, he was continually having trouble landing prosecutor jobs. No one wanted to hire him when he had ties to a murderer. You want revenge against the people belonging to the legal system, Mr. Gavin? Go somewhere else.

He went somewhere else. To casinos, to bars, to downtown areas, anywhere at all. He wrote songs. Played songs to pay for rent and food. Wrote more songs. And okay, he lied. He did get some prosecuting jobs… by witnessing crimes at the sketchier, rundown places. How many murders had he seen now, and scams, and acts of hatred? He couldn't count, but he was secretly quite grateful. A witness makes for a damning prosecutor, if he did say so himself. Others thought differently, believing that if he was surrounded by crime on a daily basis, he was involved in underhanded tactics as well.

Did that defense attorney Apollo Justice know about what he had done? Did he know that those he accused—legitimately or not—had families and lives to attend to? There were repercussions even to seeking justice, but he bet the man never thought about that. Not even once.

Not that Klavier could complain, of course. If he thought otherwise, he wouldn't have sought a job in law to begin with. Maybe it only hurt because it was so personal. …Maybe Apollo reconsidered his profession once his best friend was murdered.

Then again, maybe he didn't.

How badly he wanted to know the thoughts inside that lawyer's mind.


	2. Chapter 2

WHAT HE COULD DO:

Klavier could, he supposed, imagine his life worse than it was. He could be Kristoph's exact twin, and then feel the need to carry a gun around for those times he passed by the mirror and saw himself. He could have children and have them taken away for him being so poor and helpless. He could be so lonely and depressed that he decided to end his own life by hanging, or, more suitably, through self-induced poisoning. He could be homeless, living on the streets. He imagined picking pockets for the sake of spare change, just to have a bus ride. He'd be on a bus, going anywhere, and he'd be crouched low in the back, where no one could see him. He'd stay there all night.

He could take over the world. That's a better solution, he thought. He'd gather all of the underappreciated prosecutors in the world—he couldn't be the only one—and he'd fight the legal system. He'd change the law, make it so that anyone who applied for a job was first given a chance before being so casually pushed away. Then he would take all of the defense attorneys—especially, especially Apollo Justice—and he'd force them to reconsider their careers and their morals. He could already see it on the news: prizewinning prosecutor discovers the cure for broken heartedness.

…Nevermind. He wasn't so confident about that.

He was half pessimist, half optimist. It was a rough combination, one that made his blood spin on a daily basis. Some days he wished he could lean one way or the other, but his mind didn't quite work like that.

Today he was in the automat, his perfect curls bound up in a carefree ponytail. He had gone over his choices and made his selection based on… Well, He was tall—see, optimist—but underweight, barely a hundred pounds. He needed something somewhat fattening. He bought two bags of potato chips. Unhealthy, and unfulfilling, meaning he'd have to come back later. Not that he had anything better to do. Goddamn pessimist. Let's try that again.

Inside his mind he was nobility. Chief prosecutor, even. Always spoiled, draped in gold and crowns too bejeweled for his liking. Swimming in a sea of medals, and praise, and, on the days where he was feeling nice, prisoners about to be executed.

Prisoners?

It hit him, then. He was only one block away from the prison.

WHAT HE COULD DO THAT HE COULDN'T DO BEFORE:

Put himself in jail, where he'd always be fed, sheltered, and kept in good company. All it would take is the simple slip of a knife. Whoops.

Visit Kristoph. It had been months since they had seen each other, and normally, Klavier wouldn't be so inclined as to give his brother the satisfaction of having visitors. And he wasn't thrilled about his questions always being avoided.

Visit Daryan. At least this guy was honest. And he was genuinely interested about Klavier's "upcoming" music career. Truthfully, Klavier had been lying about his big debuts for the last several visits, but hey. It kept his friend sane.

2a. and 3a. Get some information about this Apollo Justice he kept hearing so much about.

xxx

One of two things could have been happening: either Mr. Wright and Trucy kept devouring the donuts he was buying for them before he came to visit, or it was the work of Clay's ghost. The former seemed more likely, but he could never be too sure.

There had been three donuts in the box from the store when Apollo dropped them off that morning. Upon his return at night, there were none. Mr. Wright and Trucy always swore they ate one each. His poltergeist was growing cocky while losing tact. This, to Apollo, meant two things. One, Clay was trying to tell him something, and two, he needed to buy more than three donuts at a time.

Clay, Clay, Clay. Apollo couldn't save his best friend's soul, seeing as how he couldn't even heal his own heart. All he could do was steal some words he had gathered from his former mentor and his past trials, and he could use them in the court of law to find the true killer. He had done that. It was over. There was nothing left to do except move on and occasionally look at the picture of the two of them together. It seemed like such a happy picture, with each of them hugging the other with one arm. Smiling, with eyes closed. Eyes closed. That said something. I can't see you, but I know you're here, and I know you always will be.

He wished, however, he could change the picture to something more accurate. The photo was taken a couple years ago, after all. In the photo, Apollo isn't portrayed the way he should be. That man in the red suit and the blue tie is too innocent. He's trusting, and he believes that if he works hard enough, people will forgive him for his shortcomings. The slump in his shoulder means he's relying on others to support him.

You think this is me? This man is dead. That phantom forced me to kill him, day by day. My one and only crime, a murder at that.

Just—change the picture. You'll never see that man again.

If only he could send Clay's coffin out to space. Things could be better, then…

"Polly?"

His thoughts were interrupted by a single word, one all too familiar to him. It was a nickname given to him by Trucy, though he wasn't sure where it originated from. Probably his hair. His hair explained everything.

He was in the kitchen of the Wright Anything Agency, just staring at any empty box, when he should have been working. No wonder she sounded so confused.

"Oh, hi, Truce. Back from school?"

"Yeah. It was a weird day, though."

"Why's that?" Wasn't she going to ask what he was doing there?

"The teacher was treating us like a bunch of kindergartners! We're in high school!" she cried dramatically, throwing her arms up in the air.

Though she was acting the same, she looked different. She was normally in her magician's costume, but she wasn't allowed to wear it to school, and so Apollo found he could hardly recognize her. Today she was dressed in a blue laced blouse—the blue wasn't surprising, at least—and a white skirt that seemed too long for her short stature.

"Are you sure you should wear that skirt to school? It goes down past your knees."

"You're the last person to make fun of my height. …What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I wanted to drop off some papers for Mr. Wright, but it appears he's not home."

"Polly, Daddy has his attorney's badge back! He's not going to stay cooped up in here all the time anymore." Her voice was teasing, though slightly strained. Did she miss her father? Was Apollo being a burden on her with his presence? He watched as she slid her backpack off her shoulder and set it on the floor with a thud.

"I forget some days." He decided to change the subject. "Anyway, did your class do something bad? Why was your teacher so weird?"

"My gym teacher was weird, anyway. She had us all stand in a circle and hold hands. It was just like a giant game of ring around the rosie."

"Did you all fall down at the end?"

"No, no. The game didn't finish, obviously!" She smiled. "You want to play with me, Polly?"

"No thanks," he replied immediately. "Anyway, I gotta go. You be good here by yourself. No parties or anything."

"How about a magic show?"

Apollo looked around. Papers were strewn all over the floor and the couch, and old plates of food were left on the table to rot. The bookshelves were dusty, and the carpet hadn't been vacuumed in weeks. The Wright Anything Agency was hardly a stage—or a law office. "Take it outside. So nothing gets stolen."

Trucy gave him a brief hug before letting him leave. He thought about the kid's game they had been talking about, and he thought about how he would never let her fall, not as long as he was around. It was the least he could do.


	3. Chapter 3

Solitary confinement cell 13, Kristoph's new… ah, home, Klavier called it… was more extravagant than his own apartment had been. _Back when he was considered noble and trustworthy_. An entire wall was covered by a massive bookshelf which seemed to put even the local library to shame. Klavier couldn't read the titles, but he was sure his brother read the classics to expand his horizons, along with anything regarding the criminal justice system, for professional reasons… or so he once thought. Now he believed there was mischief and deceit behind his brother's actions. He tried to ignore it, focused on other things, but it was all so… put together. A chair lined with golden, floral decorations topped with a velvet-colored cushion seat. A wooden dresser, probably holding clothes only he was allowed to wear, plus a dusty, wrinkled prison jumpsuit. On top of the dresser included various bottles of nail polish and a pot of roses. Even the window at the top of the room seemed to support Kristoph, as if trying to shine light on the whole situation. The adornment served as a testament for how wealthy and popular he was in the face of Los Angeles.

The first thing Klavier said was, "Don't they consider that vase a potential weapon?" It had been months since they had seen each other, yet there was no formal exchange of greetings, no meaningless, personal questions regarding his brother's health or state of mind. It didn't seem right to ask, for Klavier believed he already knew the answers. Kristoph's calm and collected demeanor couldn't fool him anymore.

"In the end, beauty is more important than any frivolous rule."

Kristoph looked older, but not any wiser. Tall and well built he stood, with a twitchy smile to ruin both positive traits. Blonde hair, blue eyes, small wire-framed glasses that didn't quite fit his face. He was well dressed as usual, though the colors seemed wrong—blue suit, yellow tie. Both too bright. And the white shoes—too showy and pure. Only his hair seemed to make sense. Klavier vaguely wondered why he still sported the same hairstyle. Nostalgia, or, as a more delusional thought, hereditary reasons.

"Ach. I'll have to stand my ground."

"I'd hardly agree."

Coming here had been all too easy. He'd applied for visitation rights the moment he found out his brother had been incarcerated, and he had been approved almost immediately due to familial associations. Your presence will force him to behave, they'd said. He'll be happier this way. And if he's ever released, it'll make his return to society much smoother. "If" being the key word. If only his brother wasn't guilty. If only the prosecutor had tried harder. If only Apollo Justice had been wrong.

It had been just as easy to declare his brother's innocence at first. But then he'd tried asking his brother about the murder. You didn't do it, right? Where were you that night? Isn't Phoenix Wright a liar? He was always met with silence, and then he was forced to make his own assumptions. None of them were anything he wanted to imagine, and now he didn't even try.

Klavier didn't answer.

"I assume you came here for a reason, yes? A favor, perhaps?" Kristoph said after a few moments of silence.

"Nein, not really. I had a few questions, but I also thought it was time for a checkup."

"News reaches gossipers and television reporters much faster than it reaches the prisoners. I have little to speak of."

With the way his brother was talking, it was hard to forget the set of bars placed between them. Klavier wondered if the bars were keeping his brother in, or if they were keeping himself out. Either way, he had a nagging feeling he couldn't get rid of, as if he thought the two of them should switch places.

"Are they working on your rehabilitation?"

"According to them, I am no threat to society. I am as normal as normal can be. Nothing to fix, essentially."

"I see."

You've always been good at secrets, he didn't say.

"So what did you want to ask?"

"Oh, you know—"

"Would you rather have me be executed? It seems you only come to me when you need something."

Klavier's breath hitched. Last time he had come, it had been for answers. Now he was seeking more answers—just of a different topic. And it was true that if Kristoph were gone, he'd no longer have those guilty feelings that reminded him of his free but boring and useless life…

"I'm sorry. I'll try to come more often."

"If I were executed, I might as well put on a show. One last chance to please everyone, you see. Do you think they'd be amused if, for my last meal, I asked for a piece of myself? I am always astonished by how strong my skin is, as it keeps the weight of my heart at peace. Perhaps it would give me the strength I needed to die."

"Let's not speak of such things, Kristoph—"

"There is nothing like a trail of blood to lead you to the courage you need."

"Achtung, Kristoph," Klavier said sternly. "I want to ask you about your former employee."

"My former employee." His voice was light, implicated yet void of question.

"There was only one. You were never the type to take on apprentices. Such a successful loner." Klavier managed a smile. "Apollo Justice. Tell me about him."

"Ah, the passionate boy with the loud voice." Kristoph nodded and shook his head, as if recalling a good memory or two. Klavier's smile disappeared. How could he remember the man who put him in prison so fondly?

"Ja. Him." His German accent tended to falter when he was nervous, and in front of his brother, it was no different.

"He was loud," Kristoph said again, "but charismatically so. Dedicated and sometimes not so bright unless you pushed him in the right direction. Highly intuitive and honest. I'd say he would have taken over Gavin Law Offices nicely if things hadn't taken such an unexpected turn."

"And whose fault was that?" The words came out of Klavier's mouth before he even thought of them.

Kristoph just laughed. "No individual piece of snow feels responsible during an avalanche, does it?"

_Waxing poetic, as always_… "I suppose not. Do you know where I can find him?"

"Tracking him down, I see. Last I heard, he was still around here. Has his own office now. Justice Law Firm? Justice and Co. Law Offices? I don't know. Alas—don't do anything I wouldn't do, Klavier."

He shivered at the sound of his name. Most people couldn't say his name due to its foreignness, but of course Kristoph would know. To hear it so correctly, so pronounced, made him want to run for the hills. Not to mention the fact that Kristoph didn't ask about such curiosity.

"Thank you, Kristoph. It was good to see you."

It wasn't the end of the world, at least.

xxx

It made Apollo feel more productive, more useful, the more papers he had in his hands. He hoarded newspaper articles that had to with interesting cases and facts. An insane amount of case files were organized neatly in a special drawer in his office, and it wasn't unusual to find the papers that didn't fit strewn on the coffee table instead. And before he was so well known, he occasionally wrote his own papers about his own life to make himself feel more well rounded.

For example: out of boredom, he had created a fake article about his meeting with Athena and Mr. Wright. The rest of the trip had been frightfully boring once Mr. Wright revealed that he had no interest in sharing his findings with his former apprentice. He always was a mysterious man, but Apollo supposed some things were best left unsaid. Their initial meeting with Athena, however, had intrigued him greatly.

LOS ANGELES—Single man Apollo Justice informed the judge this morning that his new potential employee possesses the power of analytical psychology, with or without the intent to expose him and his former mentor, Phoenix Wright.

Mr. Justice, after meeting this woman (named Athena Cykes) in the middle of a festival in Germany, knew that she was special, but couldn't quite put his finger on why. He confronted her shamelessly, asking to speak to her about her future plans in law. "Anywhere you want to go," he had said. "Well, if you say so…" she had replied, with a wild grin, no less, and then she had taken him and Mr. Wright to the most expensive restaurant in Munich: Königshof. Mr. Justice whispered to Mr. Wright that he knew what he was doing in response to the other lawyer's strange looks.

Mr. Justice's intuition was right. Ms. Cykes had secrets, deep secrets, ones she didn't even know about. She was studying at law school to be a defense attorney in order to clear a certain man's name. She refused to disclose any other information on the matter. "She isn't going to tell you anything, Apollo," Mr. Wright had said, giggling all the while. "Shut up already and ask something else." EDIT: Later Mr. Justice would come to realize that Ms. Cykes's true intentions were to save a man who had once frequented her home at the Cosmos Space Center: her mother's student, Simon Blackquill. The two of them now make a forcible duo that brings fear to every courtroom they stand in.

Mr. Justice decided to tell her about himself to make her feel more comfortable. He told her about his hometown, his former mentor, and how he had risen up in the ranks since then. She seemed impressed, and mentioned something about how happy he was to be telling such a story. "You seem very proud of yourself. I can tell."

Did she have mind reading powers? Did she know things about Mr. Justice that no one else did, even though they had just met? Ms. Cykes was even able to tell what food on the menu he liked and disliked, and she ended up ordering for him, seeing as how he couldn't speak German. "If that's not proof of her power, then I don't know what is," he told Mr. Wright later. "That could be a real weapon in the court. All judges will love her, and all prosecutors will want to beat her."

Mr. Justice finally proposed an option for Ms. Cykes. "Come to America with me. You speak English well, so that's not a problem. You can work for me for a good rate. I get overwhelmed often, meaning you'll always have cases. And this man you want to save… is also in America, is he not? America's criminal justice system is severely flawed, and that is why you're here?"

Mr. Justice has a power of his own, which also told him he was right. She told him he would think about it, thanked him for the meal, and left.

"Well, what do you think, Apollo? You really want her on the team?" Mr. Wright asked him with a hint of wonderment in his voice.

"I'm about ninety-nine percent sure she'll say yes. There's no evidence that tells me so, but… I'll be damned if she doesn't ask me for a second meal."


	4. Chapter 4

Klavier always thought himself a better man whenever he stopped Daryan from doing something reckless. _You don't want to break into that car, Crescend. You'll never earn your police badge that way. _Something utterly, incomprehensibly stupid. _You want to set fire to your own house? Someday, I'll just do it for you. Once I grow insanely sick of you, that is. _Murder, of course, hadn't been on his list of things to stop. It just—never occurred to him, to think his friend capable of not only taking a life, but also denying his actions.

Daryan had fought hard for himself—physically, anyway—by kicking, by screaming profanities, and by threatening anyone who touched him. He had needed four different men to hold him down just to get his handcuffs on. Upon hearing this, Klavier couldn't help but laugh.

"You should have been the fucking prosecutor at that trial, man," Daryan had said during Klavier's first of many visits.

"Ja, well, the rivals in the making were considered more worthy." Klavier had imagined, later that night, facing off against Apollo Justice in a battle of wits. In a duel where evidence was the only choice of weapon available. Even if he was inexperienced, just standing behind that prosecutor's bench would have given him the confidence he needed to succeed—no, to _destroy_. He dreamt of nothing that night, and he awoke with a sense of disappointment he couldn't place.

While Klavier was being led to Daryan's cell, these thoughts overcame him once more. He knew Daryan was going to accuse him of not being there. It was inevitable, just as the guilty verdict had been. No one commits murder without some sort of consequence. _Unless you murder someone who wanted to die in the first place, anyway_. A pathetic thought.

It wasn't surprising to see that Daryan's cell was decidedly bare compared to Kristoph's. He could tell the bed was uncomfortable just by looking at it, and the toilet nearby told him that no privacy was offered. No bookshelf, no dresser, no change of clothes and no extra possessions. The only semblance of personality in the cell was a few photographs Daryan had taped to the wall above the bed's headboard.

"Don't any of these guys care that you were a cop?" Klavier asked.

Daryan sneered. "Of course not. You think they enjoyed putting away one of their own people? They never want to see me again. Which means… no favors."

"I'll bring you something nice next time."

"Bring your guitar and play me one of your hit singles, damnit. That's all I want." Daryan reached through the bars to pat Klavier on the shoulders.

"About that—"

"Please," Daryan interrupted. He pushed the other man back. Until then, Klavier hadn't noticed how tight he was gripping the bars in front of him. "Don't hide any details from me. Do that and I'll kick your ass the moment I get out of here."

Smirking, Klavier replied, "I got a really good gig going the other night. I was the opening act for a popular band. I've never seen a bigger crowd."

"That's my boy."

Klavier didn't mention the fact that he hadn't named said band because, well, it didn't exist. He had grown accustomed to telling these kinds of lies; they no longer stuck in his throat, struggling to choke him.

"Yeah." He thought for a moment. "Oh, Daryan… You might find this hard to believe, but I wasn't at your trial."

"No shit. The most useless prosecutor on the planet."

"Who's worth more per hour, a defense attorney or a prosecutor?" Klavier asked, slowing inching toward his real reason for coming.

"That's a stupid question. I want to see the legal system disappear and the crazy terror that follows. How many people do you think would try to order a rifle by mail? Or a bomb? Poor mailmen. A death sentence, that job would be."

"I don't need to know the answers to those questions. If I were the mailman, though, I'd insist on reading that person's mail out loud, so they couldn't aim at me first."

"Such a sly man! You should've been there when I—" Suddenly, Daryan cut himself off. Klavier had told him many times before that he didn't want to hear about the deed. Why, then, had he asked Kristoph to open up about his crime? He supposed it was because he chose his friends, but not his family. To believe he would willingly associate himself with a criminal… The whole thought ached. "Why, would you at least want to know the amount of excitement people felt on the day the first gun was scheduled to be shot?" He smiled coyly, an unusual trait for the man.

"I can only imagine."

"God, so boring. You haven't even mentioned the atrocious act these people forced on me. They cut my hair and took away my rockin' outfit for good."

It was true—Daryan looked different, strikingly so. His hair, originally dyed black and white and in an odd, sharp shape, was now entirely gone and replaced by a buzz cut. And his outfit, a gimmick made to resemble a shark, was nowhere to be seen. For some reason, instead of being nude like Klavier would expect him to, he was wearing the prison's orange jumpsuit.

"I'm just a bit distracted is all."

"Explain yourself." His voice was cold and calculated, as if Klavier were simply not allowed to breathe.

"I'm looking for Apollo Justice." He sighed. "I want to find the man who did this to you."

"Holy shit. Are you planning to be my cellmate?"

"No, no," Klavier said quickly. He shook his head to emphasize his point. "Nothing of the sort. I just—want to talk to him."

"Again, how boring. I can't help you. They wouldn't give me any information on him."

"Nothing at all?" he said, not bothering to hide his dismay.

"If you stick around long enough, I'm sure you'll see him in the detention center."

"True. I have better things to do with my time."

"It doesn't sound like it."

Also true. Somehow, Daryan always knew just what not to say.

All friendly criminals do.

xxx

Apollo had a past no one could speak of, for if they did, he would surely become the joke of the town. His efforts would crumble; the news would follow him relentlessly. (Or worse—was it possible to attend your own funeral?) He hadn't told anyone since his career had flourished, not even Mr. Wright, who was an advocate for revealing secrets people had no intentions of revealing in the first place.

But his secrets were more than just secrets. They were tense, bitter stories that reminded him of how cruel he could be if he let emotions get the better of him. Luckily, he had abandoned that lifestyle years ago in favor of the law, and now, the only trinket he had from back then was the bracelet he let rest on his left wrist.

When he was eleven-years-old, he stole an Egyptian cartouche made of expensive white gold material. There was nothing special about it other than its worth, but it reminded the young boy of a dog tag, and therefore the German shepherd his foster family had owned until it had accidentally got run over by a blood red car. God, how he hated the color red back then. Now he wore it as a symbol of justice, and as a memento for what he had lost and gained all at once.

Apollo believed in space and otherworldly things not only because of Clay, but also because of the signs that led him to follow the law. He was riding his motorcycle—also stolen—through the woods in the middle of the night when the cartouche flew off his neck for no discernible reason. He was so startled, his image was blurred for just a moment, but long enough for him to crash into a tree. He came out of the wreck with a mere sprained ankle and a certain determination to keep whatever remnants of the wreck he could. He searched the undergrowth, tried to revive his vehicle, wondering all the while what the hell he was truly doing. In the end, he couldn't find the cartouche, and he had to walk home.

Things like this kept happening. Instances where he stole and then lost—violently, usually—told him that he had to stop what he was doing before it was too late. He stole a friend's wallet; his friend was beaten to death because he wasn't able to settle a monetary debt. He shoplifted; he was held at gunpoint and robbed. The bad times seemed to have no end.

The only thing that he hadn't ended up sacrificing was, again, the bracelet—a family heirloom, supposedly given to him by his biological mother and father at birth. His foster parents constantly told him to never misplace it. It has a power, they said. You'll need it someday, no matter who you become and no matter where you go. This was the single warning from them he listened to, and its outcome made him wish he had cooperated sooner.

Now, Apollo could feel it. He could sense it. He wasn't careless anymore, or irresponsible, or unfortunate. If someone was lying, he could tell. His bracelet would tighten and force his skin to become insecure and insatiably jittery until the mystery was solved. His mind would focus on the smallest of details, and other peoples' confidential habits would be exposed, which allowed for further—and more accurate—testimony. His power had helped him during many cross-examinations, to the point where he didn't know if he could be a defense attorney without it. His bracelet: the trademark that brought cognizance on crimes that couldn't otherwise be deduced.

Just like his bracelet, and because of his bracelet, his life was void of rust and tarnish. His success lay in the tiny ceramic box that he hid under his bed at night or while he is in the shower. His career owed an object that, when standing alone, told him how valuable or valueless he was. All that he had endured thus far was thanks the only present his parents had left behind.

His bracelet sparkled—shiny, new, indestructible—and so did he. What more in life could he want?

He found his answer on the day Klavier Gavin stepped foot into his office.


	5. Chapter 5

He couldn't believe he was doing this. He, Klavier Gavin, in-another-world-type rock star and renowned prosecutor, was scouring the garbage for any sign of Apollo Justice's old cases. Something that would point him in the right direction had to be in this forsaken piece of junk. He silently thanked Kristoph and Daryan for their help while simultaneous cursing them for not having enough information on hand. Justice has a law firm? Oh—don't know the name of it. He's always in the detention center? But you don't know when or on what days he's usually there…? Poor excuses from even poorer people!

So far, his search had come up with nothing. And this wasn't his first try, not even close. He had tried other dumpsters. He had tried to buy the latest newspaper. He threw out the first copy, and then bought another one just to double check himself. For three days, he sang at restaurants, asking for information instead of tips this time. No one gave him a second glance, as their food and wellbeing was more important than a desperate man's wishes.

His quest began with a dumpster, and it ended with a dumpster. He found what he was looking for right outside of his own apartment as he was coming home to rest for the night. A perfectly wrapped up newspaper had caught the corner of his eyes, and there it was: "Apollo Justice of Justice and Co. Law Offices wins yet another case. The streak continues!" It seemed too good to be true, and the tired man wondered why he hadn't thought to check there before ravaging the entire city.

He made his move the next day. At this point his actions were entirely impulsive and borderline obsessive. Just days ago he hadn't cared about the man half as much as he did now, but seeing his cherished ones locked up once again had rekindled his interests, his fury. He gathered some important papers that would attest to his own significance, and he rode over to the Justice and Co. Law Offices at a ridiculously high speed. He didn't consider the cops pulling him over until he actually arrived at the office in record time. He had anticipated a twenty minute drive, but only ten minutes had passed.

_They wouldn't be able to stop me, anyway. Not until I got to say what's on my mind._

And what would he say? He hadn't thought about it. Would he clam up, use his fists instead? He wasn't the type to resort to violence, but stranger things had happened to him and others in his life. Los Angeles was a place of heartbreak, after all. Here, people fell in and out of love in seconds every time they walked down the street. If they didn't, they thrust themselves into a corner of disdain and hatred.

_Don't deny it, Apollo Justice. You'll need me someday. And I won't be there._

_I've been thinking… I've been thinking of all the answers to the questions you never asked!_

_No amount of money—and no amount of fame—could ever keep me here._

He got out of his car, walked up the steps. Knocked on the door and invited himself in. No doorknob or piece of wood was going to retain him.

The place was surprisingly bare. Brand new, or just extraordinarily clean. Healthy, tall plants stood in the corners of the room and by the windows, and a set of four chairs lay together in a square shape. A few paintings lay stiffly on the walls, but they didn't offer a peaceful atmosphere like Klavier thought they should. There was nothing else to see except a divider that was placed in the middle of the room. Klavier couldn't see the owner by the waiting area, and so he assumed he would find his target at a desk on the other side. Maybe he'd be dozing off. Maybe he'd have a dirty suit on. Maybe he'd be so astonished by Klavier's arrival that he would yell obscenities at him. Maybe he'd humiliate himself without Klavier having to even try.

None of the above happened. Apparently, Apollo Justice had heard him come in, for he rounded the corner and greeted the prosecutor with a smile and an outstretched hand.

"You're lucky. There's no wait today," he said in a friendly tone. "What can I do for you, sir?"

Klavier didn't shake his hand, but he sure did shake his head and give Apollo the papers that he had brought with. Apollo's smile didn't disappear as he took the sheets and glanced through them.

"I see… A resume, a reference list… Are you applying for a job here?"

Klavier didn't answer. He watched as Apollo eyed his attire, up and down, thoroughly and surely. And again. He wasn't dressed for the occasion. His sweatpants and purple hoodie gave off an obvious, negative first impression.

"Well, let's see…" Apollo continued. He focused more on the actual words on the papers. "You're… a prosecutor? If you didn't know, I don't hire prosecutors. I'm—"

"I know who you are. Don't worry," Klavier interjected. It felt good to finally speak, but his heart wasn't pounding, nor was his head threatening to split open from the gregarious confrontation. The man wasn't as direly wicked like he had been expecting. Apollo seemed like a normal and relatively simple defense attorney. His red suit was plain, his blue tie a standard dark shade. His hair—mostly slicked back with two spikes in the front to boot—wasn't a crazy color, just brown. Only his eyes seemed odd, as they looked at his with the ferocity of someone who can look into your soul and know what's inside in a matter of moments.

"Oh." His face fell. "Do you mind telling me what you're doing here, then…?"

"Do you know who I am?"

Apollo's gaze turned into a sort of glare, as if he were perceiving an evil intention behind the prosecutor's words. He looked down at the papers once more, then said, "Mr. Gavin, is it? Klavier… Gavin…?"

"Ja, that's my name." Klavier reached behind his head and tore off the band that was concealing his hair. He let it fall free, and since he had curled it the previous night, the curls uncovered themselves on his shoulders in a dramatic, perfect fashion.

Apollo opened his mouth in response, but he couldn't seem to speak. "I… You… Do you know Kristoph Gavin?"

"He's my older brother. My… only brother, mind you."

The other man unconsciously took a step back and nearly tripped over his own feet. "I didn't know Mr. Gavin had a younger brother. He never… He never talked about you. Is that a bad thing to say…? Forget I said anything. I'm sorry!"

At this, Klavier actually chuckled. He had come to embarrass the other man, but not in this way. This—this was utterly hilarious to him. He put a hand over his mouth to stifle himself. "No, it's not bad. I would be surprised if he did."

"Ah…" Apollo gulped. "What can I do for you, Mr. Gavin? Here at Justice and Co. Law Offices, we—"

"Spare the details. I know what you do." This all-knowing attitude of his was going to come back and bite him in the ass later, but he couldn't help himself.

"O-Oh…?"

"Herr Apollo Justice, god of the courtroom. The mastermind behind the imprisonment of all the latest hardened criminals. Herr Apollo Justice knows how to spin tales greater than any fairy tale known to man, and he forces the judge to pound his gavel before anyone else has a chance to speak. Should I go on?"

As Klavier spoke, Apollo regained his composure. He stood up straight, stretched his shoulders, took a deep breath, as if he were preparing to talk Klavier down from the top of a building. _Well, Mr. Apollo Justice, you don't have to worry about that. You said I was lucky, but it's really you… who is lucky I grew up the right way._

"No, no. I know what this is about."

Klavier sneered. It appeared to be the other man's turn to act as if he knew everything. He distracted himself by looking out the window. Outside, the trees were swaying slightly, and he swore he could hear a bird singing. If today were brighter, if today were any other day, he'd hum right along. Instead he was cooped up here with a man he didn't even know he detested until now—of his own accord, but still.

"Enlighten me, Herr Justice."

"Okay, honestly, I can't be one hundred percent sure. You had me worried at first. I mean, the angry words, the accusations, the fake job application… All great pretenses. Really."

"Mein Gott. Did you think I came here to kill you?"

"Ah, yes, well, it has been known to happen." Again, the other man seemed flustered. He frowned and took his forefinger, placed it on the middle of his forehead as if lost in thought. "Revenge is one of the common motives for murder…"

"And why else do you think people kill, Herr Forehead?" The nickname came out before he could even think of it. Just looking at that wide, exposed forehead of Apollo's was enough to deem him as someone who couldn't be taken too seriously.

"Why…? There could be any reason, but I'm no psychologist. Maybe you could ask my employee. She's—"

"No. I asked you."

Apollo paused, and the silence lingered between them like it would between a predator and its prey. "Listen, Prosecutor Gavin. Do you mind if I call you that? I used to call your brother Mr. Gavin… Anyway, look, if it were me against the world, I'd take the worst parts of this world and lock them away. All of them. But that's not the case, is it?"

"You mean to say that there's actually people on your side, ja?"

"Exactly. That means—"

"The courtroom must be lonely when you're not there, then. The judge cries himself to sleep the nights you're not there, the gallery is empty if you're not attending, and the confetti in the storage closets gets put through the shredder, even if the defendant is set free. Is that right?"

"Prosecutor Gavin…?" Apollo wondered if he was ever going to be able to relax about this man. It wasn't every day that a killer's family member came to visit, but in his mind, that was beside the point. Klavier seemed lost and a little down on his luck. If only he could speak—

"The room doesn't shine, the most important nuggets of wisdom go unsaid and unheard. I'll bet even your opposing prosecutor is disappointed that you're not there to rock the stage."

Apollo cleared his throat. "Prosecutor Gavin, if I may. What I meant to say is that not only am I someone looking for the truth surrounding any case, but there are others who think so, too. Are you looking for redemption for your family? Are you looking to get some steam off your chest? Well, I'm sure you're not the only one."

"Oh, Herr Forehead, you assume that there is someone out there with a story just like mine. There must be—according to you—a boy who was born and raised in Germany with a brother and parents. Normal, right? They moved to America for better job opportunities, and the parents were always so preoccupied with their new lives that they didn't even notice when both children moved out at the age of eighteen. The older brother moves on to become a great defense attorney, but his main shortcoming lies in the fact that—wait, achtung, this is the best part—he killed a man who committed no crime other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time! The younger brother, on the other hand, is no saint, but he's close. He's pretty, he's got potential, people are on his side—just as you say—but he can't seem to step in the courtroom without people eying him suspiciously. He has to force himself to stay calm while dwelling on his second passion in life, music. And sure, he's vain, but he knows he deserves a hell of a lot better than you have given him."

"And you, Prosecutor Gavin, assume that it's my fault your brother committed murder."

"No, but it's no coincidence that you put away both my brother and best friend. I don't know if I believe in fate, but…" He stopped himself, unsure of what to say, and he had to catch his breath.

"Your best friend?"

"Daryan Crescend. Cop. Ex-cop."

Apollo stared at him with no signs of recognition appearing on his face. It seemed to click a whole minute later, when he said, "Oh. Oh…"

"You can't even remember him?"

"No, I can. I've just been involved in a lot of cases, so they tend to get mixed up… which, I suppose, is your point. I'm admired for what I do, and you hate it. …You said you can't get prosecuting jobs?"

"…That's right." Finally—Apollo was starting to get it. Thickheaded man.

"Let me help you out. I'd like to reiterate that it's not my fault… what's happened to you. But either way, I'm sorry. I'm only interested in the truth. I didn't have a personal vendetta against Mr. Gavin or Mr. Crescend. They just… Well, you said it yourself. Wrong place in the wrong time. For all of us." He looked down at his feet, shifting uncomfortably where he was standing. He seemed genuinely apologetic, Klavier noticed, and hadn't this been what he had come for? Still, things were spiraling off the main path.

"I don't need your sudden feelings of pity. You acted perfectly fine up until now."

"Do you think I enjoy seeing you hurt like this?"

"I'd say you have some sadistic tendencies, ja."

"W-What? You think so?" Apollo rubbed the back of his head nervously. "Please. I can put in a good word for you. Just give me the name, and I'll do it."

"What do you have to gain in all of this?"

"A clear conscience, for one… now that you've put all that guilt into my head."

"Your turn to be the defendant."

"Right. And you said you like music? You could be the next big thing! I can make sure of it."

"I'm sure your legal profession has profound effects on the music industry."

Apollo managed a smile, but it faded just as swiftly. "Stop joking around. Is this how you deal with the pain? You joke about things, and play music… probably with limericks as lyrics?"

"You were doing better before you were offering your assistance. Ask me about myself and I'll avoid your every word, say I'm pretty boring. If you couldn't tell by now, though, I think I'm the most fascinating person I know. I'm quite complex, you see. Ask me about my past and I'll become a fortune teller. Ask me about music and I'll recite lines from poetry instead. Ask me indirect questions, Herr Forehead, and you've got me right where you want me."

"You're still joking, asshole."

For a moment, Klavier was taken aback by the harsh word. _Can I put him out of business over this?_ "Quite unprofessional, Herr Forehead."

Suddenly, Apollo lashed out, faster than Klavier could blink. It forced the wannabe prosecutor to flinch and brace himself, as if he expected the other man to punch him in the face, or stomach, or worse. When nothing of the sort happened, he opened his eyes, saw—rather than felt, at first—Apollo's hand wrapped around his arm. When his senses returned to him, Klavier could tell that Apollo's grip was firm and warm, but lacking in strength. He watched wordlessly as Apollo took his arm and placed his hand on the bracelet on his left wrist.

"Reach out—and touch. Prosecutor Gavin, my body has an undeniable habit. It tenses up in response to anyone lying, including if I myself tell a lie. Do you understand?"

Klavier nodded.

"I'm glad I put your brother in prison."

Klavier felt the bracelet on Apollo's left wrist grow tighter, as if it were trying to escape from being so restricted. He gasped and tried to pull away, but the other man jerked him back to his original position.

"See? Now… I have no ulterior motive."

Nothing happened.

"The pity you think I feel is heartfelt."

Nothing.

"I plan on helping you any way I can."

_Mein Gott—is this man crazy?_

"But you have to let me do what I can do."

At this, Klavier pulled away again, this time successfully. Apollo's arm fell limply at his side as he waited for the other man to say something, anything. Had he reached the prosecutor, or had his efforts been in vain?

Klavier took a step forward, then back. He paced around the room, deliberately slow. He could do a number of things right now. He could turn his back and never see Apollo Justice ever again. He could take the other man for his word. If he were really up to it, he could take that plant vase and knock it over that damn defense attorney's head. All possibilities seemed to lead to nowhere—except for one. He made his way around the room twice before standing up to Apollo.

"Tomorrow night. Meet me at the Borscht Bowl Club. If you're nice, I'll play a song for you."

"The Borscht Bowl Club?" He blanched. "Why there?"

Klavier rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me you forgot the place where my brother committed the crime, too."

"No, I remember. That's why… That's why…" Apollo sputtered uselessly.

"If murder doesn't make sense, these kinds of things don't need to make sense. Take my word for it."

"Er. Right." A pause. "Prosecutor Gavin?"

"Ja?"

"How often do you go there?"

"I perform there all the time. Rundown and sketchy, it is. That's what my life consists of, Herr Forehead."

Apollo thought for a moment. "Wear your nicest suit, as if you were celebrating. Because that's the last time you'll ever go there, I can guarantee you that much."

Klavier said nothing and turned to leave. He stood at the door for what seemed like forever, considering, one last time, what had just transpired. That fool—that smug, ridiculous Herr Justice—could read his racing thoughts the entire time. He knew how the prosecutor felt, and he knew just how to get on his good side. He knew just what to say; he knew what not to say. As if he could read minds. As if he were too intelligent for his own good. As if he could claim, from the bottom of his heart, that he cared.

He looked at the doorknob.

_Reach out—_

_And touch._

He opened the door. It was time to prepare for tomorrow night.


	6. Chapter 6

How easily Klavier's bones had given away beneath his own weak hand.

The man was small in frame, sure, but not pathetically so. He wasn't breaking into pieces (not yet, not yet—he had come at a good time, Apollo decided), and he wasn't fragile, otherwise he wouldn't have approached the office in the first place. He would have succumbed instead to the mirage that told him his brother and friend were innocent.

Still—he was bendable. Apollo had flexed his fingers around the other man's smooth, tan skin, and had twisted them in a way that indirectly told the truth he deep down wanted to know. Apollo felt that he had molded a new man in an instant. In had come an angry, delicately constructed avenger, and out had gone a calm, intrinsically inclined... acquaintance? An understatement, in Apollo's mind, but it was the best word he could think of as he watched the prosecuting musician walk out the door.

He imagined that Klavier had a lot of thinking to do, whereas he had nothing to arrange for except the vague possibility that the other man might come back, enraged and murderous. The thought made him laugh, and then he shivered at the sound of his naivety.

He went around the corner, and he sat at his desk. The other side of the divider was unbelievably tidy and organized, whereas his desk was a mess that he'd forget about, if only the nature of his work allowed him to. He had been signing paperwork before Klavier arrived, but now he wasn't the least bit interested. He wheeled his chair over to the corner, where a filing cabinet stood, dauntingly tall and filling to the brim with stories of the past. Apollo wore the memories of his former mentor's trial like he would wear a sword and shield in the midst of a battle, and while he couldn't reminisce as well about Mr. Crescend's trial, those memories were flooding back to him too. Kristoph's scar, the wild hair he unfurled and tangled in his state of disarray, the cop's threats to put him into a situation in which no defense attorney would take his case … It was all unpleasant, but close, as if he could reach out to those images and touch them, too, all the while giving them a heartbeat and, consequently, a life of their own.

He took out the files labeled for "G" and "C" and thought that he was punishing himself by putting himself in that rough position once more. Did Klavier believe he enjoyed putting his mentor in chains, or a cop considered special to the entire force? It had cost him many nights of sleep; many meals went untouched and rotten. And he had caused Mr. Wright and Trucy to worry so much they felt compelled to check on him every day for two weeks.

He fingered the papers in his hand quickly, eager yet confused at what he might find (and he would do it again the next morning, and right before he and Klavier's meeting, though he didn't know yet). He went so fast he gave himself a paper cut, then another. He cursed himself but he did not let go or give up. He knew the papers had been distant for too long, as the corners were no longer curled. At last, he found both articles he was looking for, and he stared at them, clung to them as if they were a lifeline he couldn't afford to lose. All that held his gaze were hazy words and a few pictures that spoke nothing of Klavier's obvious pain.

That was the problem with pictures—they captured an exact moment, but not the full meaning or context behind the situation. Mr. Gavin was being led out in chains, but where was the grieving Klavier? Mr. Crescend was furrowing his brows and refusing to say a word, but what was he truly thinking at the time? The papers revealed nothing of true significance.

The articles themselves were no better. They depicted Mr. Gavin and Mr. Crescend in an unfavorable light, with no signs of past accomplishments to be seen. To the journalists who had written this, the two criminals were merely puppets to put on a stage and fumble with until they fell down, unable to be used or put together again. Apollo supposed he couldn't blame them. He, too, had been unaware of the aftermath of his actions, and only now were they coming back to accost him.

He leaned back into his seat and took a deep breath. He couldn't be sure about Klavier's intentions—but he was sure that Klavier himself didn't know what he wanted, and that had been the only reason why he agreed to a second meeting. Apollo thought about all the times in the past where he had acted as a detective, though that wasn't in his job description. Well, he'd done it before, and he could do it again. He could clamber inside of Klavier's mind and crack the code. He could solve the mystery of Klavier's future. He owed it to himself… and to the world. That was why he had become a defense attorney, after all. He had wanted to redeem himself, and now that he had been put into a hole once more, he felt he had to get out.

He put the papers away, noticed at the last moment the finality that a black and white print could offer. But—times went on. Things could be changed.

Klavier believed in the two of them forming a paradox, but Apollo could unravel it, piece by piece, until there was nothing left to say or do.

xxx

During times of utter confusion, it was best to just write a song. It was a task difficult to complete, however, when the senses he had felt when he was in Apollo's office were on overload. He could still see the reverent glint in the defense attorney's eyes, which mismatched the devil horns sticking out from his forehead like deadly knives. And the wind whizzing by—was that the remnants of Apollo's voice following him, or was it just a gentle breeze meant to comfort him? The air in the room had been thick and heavy, and it stuck to his tongue even now.

Apollo had seemed honest. Frighteningly so. What was that nonsense about feeling lies, anyway? His arm hung at his side, weighed down still by Apollo's hand. If he had been in the wrong state of mind, he might have fought back and flung the man across the room with the little amount of upper body strength he had. He had to admit he hadn't been in the best of places, but it was better that what could have been. He wondered if Apollo had noticed and was thankful, too. Then he decided he didn't—couldn't—care.

Apollo. He couldn't stop thinking about him, not even while writing. Apollo was going to make him famous? Apollo was going to help him out? Scenarios played out in his mind, as they always did. He could not only write songs, but write whole albums, and have them released one by one until fans were pleading for a new hit single. He wouldn't be able to walk down the street without someone wanting his autograph or a souvenir of the encounter. He'd own a motorcycle; he'd dress fashionably and appropriately. He'd act like a role model. He'd act like any rock star should.

And the prosecuting. He couldn't forget about the prosecuting. He could stand behind the bench and uncover the truth behind a crime. He could make opening statements, and call reliable, unforgettable witnesses. He could ask for recesses, and address the judge as a wise, brilliant man. And if he really wanted to be cool, he could combine the two jobs. Play some air guitar when he was thinking of a point to make. Slam the wall behind him to get some attention.

It could be perfect, if only he could trust Apollo. To trust the man at this point, already, meant betraying Kristoph. It meant stabbing Daryan in the back. It meant going back on his own word. He didn't want to visit them once more and tell them of an authentic, successful meeting between two enemies. He didn't want to watch their bodies show the same feelings and expressions he had felt upon hearing of their convictions.

When he reached his apartment, he wondered if he was obligated to turn around and tell Apollo how much he had complicated his life in a mere few minutes, and to just forget about the second meeting. He did no such thing, but the idea stayed with him for the remainder of the day. Now he was trying to write, and all he could do was look around his apartment for some peace of mind. But the place was bare. There was no money to buy decorations, or proper furniture. He had his bed, and some appliances to cook with, and that was it. His other belongings still lay inside boxes from when he moved in. And, look, he hadn't cleaned in weeks. He pretended to be too busy, but really he was just lazy and had no motivation. He wasn't satisfied with his life, and by association, he hated the apartment—so why bother? He'd had to call the exterminator a few times to get rid of the pests that invaded, though he had hesitated in doing that, as they were his only friends most days. On the other days, he had paper. He had a pen. He had music notes, and chords, and lyrics, and a guitar he had bought with over a year's savings.

Well, today was one of those days. He prepared for the following night quickly by gathering his only prosecutor's suit and letting it hang in his closet. Why linger longer on what was probably going to be a disaster? And then he got right down to work. Between his paranoia, agitation, and anger, he came up with a song for Apollo, of all people. Normally, he was accustomed to writing songs about the law—_oh, so I had already been working on combining his two jobs without noticing?_—but today, following his normal routine was, perhaps by some unseen force, the last thing he was focusing on.

_The words I speak_

_With the lower half of my heart_

_Are the truest things I know_

_And I say connections are not something to be faulted for_

_The words you speak_

_With the surface of your heart_

_Tell me I must trust you not to burn a bridge_

_When I am standing at its center, unmoving_

_I hope you like to follow through_

_Because __I wasn't made to make amends_

_I can't be held responsible_

_I won't be held responsible…_


	7. Chapter 7

Self-sabotage. That's what this was. Reality had come to him without a moment's notice, simply to shove a nice hot bowl of borscht in his face. The universe was conspiring to tell him that, well, if you can't hate your brother, and if you can't hate your only friend, then you should hate the only promising person left in your life. Or something like that. Either way, no apology was being prepared for Klavier's sake. What could he do but give in to the instincts that told him the opposite, that he should give Apollo a chance?

When he arrived, Apollo was already seated at a table, waiting ever so patiently for his new friend. Wasn't he scared, like he had been at the office? It wasn't that Klavier had the hardest of souls, but murder didn't limit itself to private locations. Still. The defense attorney seemed to be parading along his faults and his failures with such grace, and with the vigor of a man who was convinced he was doing things for the greater good. Klavier scoffed at this as he approached the table.

"How long have you been here? Excited for something, Herr Forehead?"

Apollo looked up. Previously he seemed engrossed in tracing his hand along the outline of the table. An interesting way to entertain oneself, Klavier thought.

"Oh. No work today, so I tried to take a nap before coming. You know when your body jerks itself awake as you're trying to fall asleep? Yeah, that happened about three times. I gave up and drove myself here. Must have read the time wrong."

"What a fascinating tale." He rolled his eyes. "That kind of thing occurs when your heart rate drops too fast. Your body wants to make sure you're still alive, so it forces you to wake up. So you're alive, Herr Forehead. Congratulations."

Apollo chuckled for a mere second. In that time alone, Klavier could detect nervousness. "Yeah, I guess I am. Did they teach that in law school?"

"If you couldn't tell already, I have a lot of time on my hands," he replied, thinking internally that he could mess with Apollo's vulnerable sensitivity if he so chose.

"That explains… nothing." Another punctual chuckle. "Please, have a seat, Prosecutor Gavin," he added.

Klavier did so, deciding that his very presence was apparently nerve wracking enough. "What that means is that I may be an underachiever, but I'm willing to overcompensate wholeheartedly."

"I'm glad to hear it. I wouldn't feel right offering to help someone who isn't going to actually make use of my resources."

"I won't even ask."

Apollo nodded, and silence followed. Klavier watched as the other man sipped out of a grape juice bottle and swallowed discreetly. He definitely had nothing to say to that. He'd choose to drink nothing—or an inconceivable amount of alcohol—before grape juice, considering a bottle just like the one in Apollo's hand had been Kristoph's murder weapon of choice. Crates of the drink lined the place, however, and so he couldn't reasonably blame Apollo. The decor was tempting, and the dim lights and the cold frigid air didn't make things any better. Klavier wished they'd turn on the fireplace to give the place more personality, but it had never been lit during any of his shows.

Klavier tapped his fingers. Click click click.

Apollo gulped.

Click. Click click.

"It's supposed to get chilly tonight," he finally said, rubbing his hands together now.

"Don't discuss the weather. We both know damn well you couldn't hold a polite conversation even if you tried," Apollo quipped. For someone who seemed awfully anxious, his voice sure was fierce.

"You sound bitter. Are you having second thoughts?"

"No." Apollo realized he had spoken too quickly. "I mean, you seem serious enough. You even wore a suit like I told you to. Purple looks good on you, by the way."

"And you…" Klavier started, examining the other man's attire. He was sporting his normal red vest, with his usual white collared undershirt. Same blue tie. Same red pants, and black leather shoes. "Your outfit looks a bit frazzled. Don't tell me you tried to sleep in that on your day off?"

"Uh. You caught me!" A sure laugh, one that reached his core.

"Please, Herr Forehead, this is a peaceful, quiet restaurant. Most of the time, anyway," he added. Had Apollo been this loud back at the office? It would have made more sense, then, to attract attention when they were alone. Now he was just being obnoxious. Just as Kristoph had said. _Leave it to Kristoph to strike fear into his own intern and only then pay attention to all the little details that follow._

"Ah. Right. My apologies." He cleared his throat and took another sip. "Anyway, why don't you get something to eat or drink?"

"I came here to play a song, isn't that right? My thanks to you, if you will."

"Thanks for what…?"

"Thanks for whatever it is you plan on doing for me, of course." He wasn't apt to decrypting his own voice, but he could tell it was void of true emotion. He had no reason to feel indebted to this man. Not yet. And, if things would ever start going his way, not ever.

"Hmm." Apollo folded his hands and looked at him curiously. "What are you going to play for me?"

"An original. Just for you, Herr Apollo Justice." He leaned forward on his elbows, and he outstretched his right hand toward Apollo's face. Reach out—and touch. Hadn't he learned that, not too long ago? Immediately he could feel the heat radiating from the other man's face as he blushed and stammered something unintelligible. "Sorry," Klavier said. "You had something on your face. Be more careful with that grape juice bottle, ja?"

He didn't wait to hear the other man to say anything. He went to stand, using the table as a prop. Now he was ready to perform. It seemed to lessen the stressfulness of the situation if he could ensure a good mood within his listeners. His words had been playful and light, just as he had intended. He tried not to dwell on the fact he had just flirted with an adversary.

He made his way over to the piano, as his guitar was resting by its side. He sat down on the little seat nearby and positioned himself rightly. He thought for a moment and tried not to let his hesitancy show. Yes, he was going to play an original song, one he had poured his own effort into, but he wasn't sure which. He could play a sad song, but if the tragedy depicted in the lyrics only reached himself and not Apollo, the time would be wasted. A happy song, then, seemed like the correct choice, but it didn't accurately show the persistence of his whispering failures.

It was time to improvise. He'd done it before, on nights where his services required so much of his time that he ran out of songs to play. Those nights were hard to come by, but he felt that this was one of them. Apollo was prolonging his presence, almost ruthlessly, yet Klavier was responding with gentleness and indulgence.

He strummed, and thus it began. The music flowed out of him as if his very body was the instrument instead of the guitar. He flicked his wrist, again and again, played the chords he thought sounded well together in the midst of his various practice sessions. As he played he imagined his melodies being played in churches, in television commercials, or in the heated lovemaking session between a brand new couple. He was invigorated and deeply proud of his creation.

A sigh built at the back of his throat as he stumbled in his mind through all the words he wanted to say. None of them were coming to him as easily as he had hoped, and so he settled for an instrumental piece. His distraction made itself known, however, as he strummed the wrong note. There was an awkward moment of silence before he cleared his mind and continued. Klavier lowered his head and watched his fingers work their magic, determined not to slip once more. He was dimly aware of his one man audience, but the purposefulness of his actions hadn't disappeared.

Apollo watched and listened, though if he were being honest with himself, he was still flustered by the unexpected touch from Klavier's hand. If his own hand was still lingering on his cheek, he didn't notice, as he wanted to give his full attention to the performance. He wasn't an expert at analyzing music, but he felt he could confidently compare it to a rollercoaster ride. At first the song was slow, and then the pace quickened, and it went on like this. There were lulls and there were moments of undeniable excitement. He wondered what the title of this piece was, but he wasn't about to interrupt and ask.

He hadn't told Klavier this, but inside his pocket was a recording device. By now he already knew of Klavier's stubbornness and so he hadn't asked for his permission to videotape the performance. He moved his shaky hands to his pocket and made sure it was on, even though he had confirmed its readiness before the musician had even showed up.

Listening again now, Apollo fell inside himself. He could feel himself ghosting downward, through the floor and right back into his conscious, concrete body. Over and over again. He wanted to ask Clay if this was how it felt to die, but again, now was not the time. Would it ever be the right time? To speak up, to clear his name and get some answers? He wished his senses would dull themselves, but he was not so lucky. He tapped his fingers on the table, just as Klavier had done earlier, though he was doing it to the rhythm of the song. He wanted to be a part of Klavier's work; he wanted a greater tie than he already had. He felt he could be loyal to Klavier because his admiration was stronger than his fear.

When the song was finished, Apollo shut off the recorder before he clapped his hands and cutely asked for an encore.

"Oh, Herr Justice, I don't think so," Klavier said, wiping the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. "I think that was enough of a workout for one day."

"What do you do when real customers ask for more?"

"I look at the bucket full of dollar bills at my feet and give them what they came for. You, my friend…" he trailed off, cautioning himself, "are a special exception."

"I don't feel so special," Apollo lied. A brushing touch, a , and kinder-than-usual words were enough to make his feelings go askew.

"I admit… I'm shocked that you can't hear the screaming inside my head. My head is telling me that you're going to be my ultimate savior, my one and only, well, _everything_."

"And it's also telling you to get the fuck out of here while you still can."

"Ah. That it is."

"So…" Apollo decided to change the subject. "You're not going to eat anything, are you?"

"No money, sir. I don't come here to eat, anyhow."

"I'll pay for you. Pick anything off the menu."

Klavier stared at the other man. He seemed sincere enough, but he wasn't about to be considered a poor charity case. It was bad enough that he was accepting indirect help regarding his career.

"You just don't know when to give up, do you?"

"Well, Prosecutor Gavin, there is something bothering me…"

"Oh?" Klavier wasn't sure he wanted to pry, but he seemed obligated to care.

"I'm only going to say this once, okay? And you can take it with a grain of salt. Or not. Whatever." Apollo sighed. "Your life really is none of my business. If you want to get yourself thrown in prison to be with your brother or Mr. Crescend, that's fine by me. If you want to push away everyone only to end up throwing birthday parties for yourself, then that's fine too. And if you want to bury yourself in order to go to a certain place in hell that doesn't even belong to you, then be my guest. Sometimes, though, unfounded and odd opportunities present themselves for a reason. These opportunities should tell you that they're here to help you search for something that you originally thought could never be found. Love, fame, money—anything you want, you can still get it. And—well, I suppose that's it. Have I said enough?"

Klavier looked away. His main question was about how long he should take to reply to the lecture he had been given. What was he blabbering about? Opportunities and loss. That was it. It was up to him to choose one or the other. And when he chose, there would be no turning back.

This, undoubtedly, was new to him. All his life, things had been handed to him. Even at the youngest age possible, his family was able to tell what he wanted before he made the tiniest cry. He asked for certain toys for Christmas, and he got them. His outstanding grades required little work. Colleges practically begged him to apply. Need a car, Klavier? I'll get you one, too, even if you don't have a license yet.

He was fine until age seventeen. Then he was denied. Then he couldn't graduate with honors. Then he couldn't get a job. Then Kristoph committed murder, and the whole family vanished off the face of the earth. He struggled, but his past had never taught him to _want_ things. He had never officially learned how to ask, how to pine, or anything else that might improve his lifestyle. It was unnecessary to seek anything more than what he had already been given. Tools of lust and yearning were not in his repertoire. He thought—all he could have ever wanted was someone who was willing to build him up, not tear him down. He had had enough of that pain. And that person, that friend… was standing right in front of him. He had offered much, and had reproached him to bring him back to reality. And he was already threatening to leave.

"Stay."

"What?"

"I said—you can stay," he said, louder this time. "But don't think I'm going to like it or anything."

"That's understandable."

"This is the part where you're supposed to say you don't like it, either."

"I'm sorry to disappoint. Come here, let me disappoint you some more," Apollo said. He pulled out his wallet and left a small tip for whoever had served him the grape juice. He pulled out a bit more money before making his way to the front desk, where customers were supposed to pay and ask to be seated. Klavier had never done either of these things, and it was weird for him to be with someone who actually contributed to the fortune of a restaurant known for its cheats and secrets. When Apollo turned and saw that Klavier wasn't following, he said, "Get over here, will you?" Then he turned to the worker and added, "Sir, you sell postcards here, right?"

"Yes, Mr. Justice. This is a well known poker spot, and people like to keep souvenirs," the worker replied.

"May I have one, please?"

At this point, Klavier still hadn't followed. He watched from afar, wondering if he were in a dream. What had he just done? Had he actually just condoned this man's actions? Had he really forgotten—even if for a single moment—that his brother and his friend were perishing in prison? There should be a law, natural or manmade, for these sorts of things. Too bad, too bad.

Before he knew what he was doing—how many times was this going to happen today?—he walked slowly over to Apollo, who had just finished paying. Apollo turned to him, then handed him a rectangular object.

"Look at it. Hate it or love it. Don't care. But rip it up, because this is the last time you're coming here."

Klavier looked, as instructed. It was a postcard, that much was obvious. The back indicated a space where he should write a letter to someone—Kristoph? Daryan?—and then put a stamp in the corner. He turned it over and saw two unidentifiable people sitting at a poker table. Klavier didn't know much about poker, but he could tell the game was pretty much even.

"Right…" he said, his feet stepping forward and out of the restaurant. Something about the outside usually offered him clarity, but it was nighttime about now, and the world was dark. His mind was similar, and blank.

"This is the last time you'll be here. I promise," Apollo repeated. He only wished he could give something stronger than words—hence the postcard. Just two days ago he hadn't even known Klavier Gavin existed, and now he was offering the man something a little more profound than effort. He was, perhaps, risking everything. If Klavier figured out the real reason why he was helping, it would be the end of his career, or worse. Apollo knew that the desire for vengeance had no bounds and no ethics, after all.

Apollo watched the postcard fall apart in Klavier's hands, as if they were both put under a spell.


	8. Chapter 8

Did leaving have to be so inevitable? Apollo wondered. As he watched Klavier drive away from the Borscht Bowl Club in a daze, he couldn't help but ask himself whether or not he'd ever see the man again. He could do what he had promised to do, and then that could be the end of it. If he wanted to see Klavier, he'd have to buy concert tickets. He'd have to arrange things so that they'd be on the same cases together. In the end, it wasn't his choice. He was as powerless as he could be. Eventually he went away, in the opposite direction of his redemption.

He didn't go straight home. He didn't think he could sleep with the turmoil invading his mind. And what turmoil was this? Hadn't the meeting gone as well as he could have hoped for? Something was tugging at his heart, an unheard thought that wouldn't reach his ears or his mind. It was nearing dusk, but he had to quell the impulsiveness that was directing his every movement. The press's office wasn't too far away, and only in this fact did he find a shred of calmness.

On the way there, he concocted his strategy in his head, but it was hard to hold on to and remember. He had too much to say and not enough time to say it. He would speak and speak, and then he would be cut and reduced to a thirty second interview at best. He had to get the main points across, or his time—and Klavier's—would be for nothing. When he stepped into that towering building, he was this close to screaming his name and his reason for being there all in one breath.

The person at the front desk had a complacent look on his face, as if he'd already seen Apollo before, and as if he knew exactly why he was here. To keep up appearances, he said, "Hello, sir. Can I help you?"

Apollo looked beyond the front desk. There were even more desks, lined with topnotch computers and printers. Behind every screen was a very concentrated typist, completely uncaring for the newcomer who had just walked in so feverishly. Wasn't it almost time for them to go home? And which one of them would listen to him and not twist his story? He was putting his faith in someone he didn't even know. _Sounds pretty familiar, if you ask me. _

"Er… Yes," he said, fidgeting with his tie. It had come slightly undone without his noticing. "My name is Apollo Justice. I'm a lawyer"—he flashed his attorney's badge, which shone even with the lacking light source—"and I'd like to speak to someone about the Kristoph Gavin scandal that was so popular two years ago."

The man in front of him smiled smugly. "Mr. Justice, that case is two years old, as you say. What does it matter to us now?"

_You know why. Don't look at me like that. _"I was questioned but refused to speak about it at the time. I am willing to answer any inquiries you might still have."

"What a nice surprise. Welcome, Mr. Justice. I can take care of you right here." The man stuck his hand in a drawer and instantly pulled out a pen and paper. Apollo figured that a journalist such as himself couldn't possibly look more desperate. "What is it that you want to say?"

"Kristoph Gavin was my mentor. This means that I learned a lot of my court tactics from him. Most notably, I learned that evidence is everything. Without evidence, all your arguments are meaningless, and your client is as good as guilty without any effort on the prosecutor's part. Night after night I would echo his words in my head, and I'd yell at myself to make the mantra seem more real." In spite of himself, he managed a chuckle at the mention of his own Chords of Steel.

He kept going and said, "I also learned the art of empathy and sympathy, their differences, and what not to do with them. Mr. Gavin demonstrated himself so nicely, the point hit home rather fast. He was all for pressing witnesses and unearthing their secrets through unorthodox methods. As you know, madness embraced him not too long after his debut. What can I say? Have I learned from the best? Is there anything left to learn? What do you think?"

He stopped, unsure of how to transition to Klavier's problems. He felt he was questioning a prosecutor, but in reality, here he was talking to a man whose opinions were only meant to be written and not spoken. He watched as the reporter scribbled madly. If things went well, his story would be heard rather than contrived.

"What do I think, Mr. Justice?" he asked as he was finishing up. "It sounds like you had one perspective then, and now it has been entirely altered. Was your mentor's breakdown the only thing that contributed to this?"

"Ah—" This seemed like the perfect chance, and it was presenting itself so casually, too. If he spoke about Klavier now, however, he was putting himself at risk of sounding forced and obviously wanting to talk about something else. This wasn't the impression he wanted to make, for it was an impression any reporter could latch onto and use as bait. "I mean… Let me put it this way. As a defense attorney, it's my job to look for patterns, ones that will lead me to the truth, whatever it may be. Things like whether or not the suspect and the victim knew each other are important. It just so happens that the brain is designed to look for patterns. The problem lies in the fact that the brain tends to encounter patterns that don't exist. The brain goes on to organize facts, to filter out useless information, and so on, until it's convinced me of what I think is right. It's easy to see how misleading this can be. That's where evidence comes in. You can't trust anything the brain says unless the evidence supports you as well."

The reporter tapped his pen. He wasn't writing anymore. "Where are you going with this, Mr. Justice?"

"That's what Mr. Gavin taught me, of course. That's the extended version of it, anyway." Apollo whistled a very short tune. What he wouldn't give for a half decent Chords of Steel session right now. His voice was raspy, strained; he would be the talk of the town for the next few weeks if he wasn't careful. "So when I got my mentor convicted of murder—and I guess now is as good a time as any to say that that was never my intention—I had to search for new patterns, ones that would me if he was a good teacher or not, or ones that would tell me if I should scrap my earnings and start over. I think—I know—I've found what I've been looking for."

At this, the reporter seemed intrigued once more. "Go on, Mr. Justice."

Apollo only wished the reporter would stop using his last name. This was an act of treachery, not justice. "Just the other day, an interesting visitor came to my office. He posed as a defense attorney—his act was poor, but earnest—and, boy, when I read the name at the top of his resume, I was floored. It was Mr. Gavin number two! I refer to Mr. Gavin's younger brother, of course. Klavier Gavin… Do you know of him?"

"I can't say I do."

"Well, that's just the problem, isn't it? I hadn't heard of him, either, and I spent day after day cooped up in the same office, hearing stories from one multitasking Mr. Gavin. I can't imagine anyone with a noteworthy rep has heard of him. Again, that's the problem. The man came to me with an important message, and it's gone unheard of ever since the incident." He paused, speaking deliberately slower for the sake of the reporter's comprehension. "Klavier Gavin is angry. He holds a grudge, not toward me, but toward life itself. He directs his actions toward me, probably because I'm the only tangible proof of the conviction that isn't behind bars…"

"Vanity at its finest, I see." The reporter smiled, jotting down a note before clasping his hands and leaning forward on his elbows.

"Oh, don't get me wrong. He put a damn hole in my ego, that's for sure. I thought I was doing the world a favor for being a defense attorney, yet, I had been hurting this man for two years without even knowing he existed. Anyway, the message isn't about me. It's about him."

"Why doesn't he come in himself and tell me, Mr. Justice?"

"Are you telling me you'd listen to him?"

"If he had ties to Kristoph Gavin, then yes." He shifted his gaze. "Possibly."

"See. He's too proud for that, anyhow…" Apollo bit his lip. "He told me he's having problems getting prosecuting jobs. He's resorted to working dead end jobs at dead end places. This is only because people think he's a deviant, just like his brother. Where's the connection? Where's the proof? No one has any. He's absolutely harmless, and charming." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his recording device, the same one he had used during Klavier's performance. He handed it to the reporter and added, "Make your readers feel what he feels, and I guarantee you both won't regret it."

The reporter fixated his eyes back and forth between the tape and Apollo. He sighed, took it, and said, "I'll see what I can do. I only have one question for you."

"What's that?"

"Do you believe in your own innocence, or are you guilty by association in place of Klavier Gavin?"

No doubt the reporter was referring to the forged evidence Apollo had used to pinpoint the blame onto his mentor. And no doubt the reporter was referring to the suspicion cast in the aftermath of that fateful trial. Apollo glanced at the tape he had just given to the reporter and wondered if Klavier would consider it a bootleg, an illegal recording. He supposed it didn't matter. The rogues who had coined Klavier as a criminal without evidence deserved nothing more than underhanded tricks.

"I think I'm fine."


	9. Chapter 9

For Klavier, it was one of _those_ days. Clearly he had spent too much time with Herr Apollo Justice, and now he was paying the price for it. Memories of Kristoph were fleeting, but persistent, cutting into him faintly with the edge of a dull, dull knife. The images of Kristoph's prison cell, of course, were fresher and scarier. He wasn't sure which he preferred anymore.

When thoughts of his brother overcame him, he tended to think of his childhood in Germany, as it made him smile. He also wanted to see if he could single out the moment in which Kristoph presented his sanity to the devil. He never could figure it out, and he supposed he never would, but it didn't hurt to try. He remembered sneaking into cemeteries with Kristoph just to see what the hullabaloo was about regarding haunted areas and all that, and he remembered the two of them ditching church in favor of the frozen yogurt stand down the street. A few times they'd nearly been chased and beaten for trespassing on their angry neighbor's yard. They'd smoked together for a year or so—Kristoph did it with a finesse Klavier thought no one else could achieve, and as for himself, he'd throw them away before they were finished in order to preserve his singing voice. Their mischievous, partnered acts had a hand in their parenting, in the way they were raised. As a result, Kristoph developed a feral attitude, while Klavier was amused by the very act of living.

Los Angeles was a stark contrast to home. It spun Klavier's head round and round, over and over again, like all the excited running and laidback following that had been his downfall as a kid and adolescent. He had retained those characteristics as he grew into an adult, and he only had Kristoph to thank for that. To consider his meetings with Apollo as jokes, after all, was his only solace. Watching him stumble, and touching his face, and having him apologize for things he need not apologize for… It was all entertaining. A part of him wished he could see more. And he could. He could, but it would require future exchanges, which in turn would insinuate some sort of bond between them. If that bond had already been established, then it was also already being rejected. There could be plenty of other people in Los Angeles who could provide this sort of friendship to him. There had to be others who were auspiciously energetic and on the prowl for a successful journey lasting from birth to death.

Still—there was only one person who knew the story of his life without his having to tell it a million times, and this very same person had not only influence, but a warm-blooded heart to match. Or so it seemed. It could all be a misleading, thorough plan meant to laugh at Klavier's willingness to be deceived, but he had to remember that he had confronted Apollo without warning. There had been no time to prepare; Apollo's actions were reflexive. Even after he had a day to calculate his next move, he had arrived at the Borscht Bowl Club, weary and absorbed in his own world, as if he had forgotten about Klavier altogether.

Klavier was riding home in his bent up car, two days after their meeting, when he was thinking about Kristoph and Apollo and how messed up his relationship with the two of them was. He felt bound by Kristoph's imprisonment and he felt like a snag in Apollo's private affairs, a lump in the middle of a thread that stretched for miles and miles, starting with Kristoph's thumb, looping around his own waist, and then ending with Apollo's bracelet-clad wrist. The thin string shortened and lengthened itself as the two of his enemies pulled and moved closer, and with every piece of lie and with every piece of truth that collided in the middle, the string more or less faded away into nothingness. Klavier could tug in either direction and someone would always tug back, but the gesture wasn't always fulfilling, nor meaningful. It depended on whether or not Klavier was afraid of scissors or a fire singeing this speculative thread. But it wasn't that kind of thread. It was invisible, and only he knew of its existence. The other two were caught unawares every time they looked at Klavier's face with a hint of surprise pulling at their eyelids.

Today, however, Klavier was the one caught unawares. He was driving to nowhere at all—another one of his traditions on these kinds of days, though he always regretted the gas prices afterwards—when he thought he saw proof of Kristoph. Straight in front of him was a sleek, white Tesla Model S, an electrically fueled car that Klavier knew only the wealthiest citizens could buy. Kristoph had owned one himself and had taken every opportunity to show it off, even to people he had just met. Modesty was not part of his personality, and this lack of modesty leaked over into almost every aspect of his life, whether it was about poetry, cars, his job, or anything else. This was why Klavier was so stunned when he saw the replica of Kristoph's car in front of his own. He questioned himself, pondering about if it was possible for Kristoph to be out of prison. Had he been let off on good behavior? Had he planned an escape and was now daring the police to arrest him once more? It was more than unlikely, but not impossible, which made the mystery unsolvable.

Normally he was not so careless on the road, but for the moment he was losing his nerve. He tailgated the car in front of him so that no one else could slip between the two vehicles. And Klavier suddenly had a destination—he was going wherever this car was going, even if he'd be driving for hours. He sped up at yellow lights, rolled stop signs, did every trick in the book that wouldn't cause an accident, until the car stopped in a parking garage on the other side of the city.

Klavier held his breath for no discernible reason. If the person inside knew they were being followed, then they could report him. Or they could confront Klavier, and with the protection of the dark garage, they could hurt him easily…

He exhaled. And he smiled. The chances of the person being Kristoph were exceedingly low. He had to prepare himself to see someone else, to come into contact with heartbreak once more. _One touch in a brush against heartbreak is all I need to get my world shaken up once again. _

He unbuckled himself and stepped out of the car in a rush. At the same time, he was able to see that there were two people in the car instead of one as they also stepped out. Double the chances, half the luck. The driver and the passenger were both women, and professional looking Americans at that. They were wearing grey suits with matching skirts and high heels, and Klavier could only assume they worked at the business office across the street.

Well, it was time to go. As expected, Kristoph was still in solitary confinement cell number thirteen. Kristoph was still at his own, newer version of home. He would never be the same brother Klavier had known years ago. His cool hand would never rest lovingly on Klavier's feverish forehead ever again; his soft, firm footsteps would never reverberate through Klavier's ears again. And so on, and so on—Klavier couldn't bring himself to succumb to misery anymore. He covered his face with his arm and tilted his chin upward, as if he could teleport himself somewhere else just by blocking out his current surroundings. He was in Los Angeles, the city of tricksters, the city with the unique power to form shadows even without any light. He willed himself back to Germany, to better lifetimes.

It didn't work.

"Klavier Gavin?"

A shrill, sheepish voice brought him back to reality. He glanced at the woman in front of him and saw a shrewd look of recognition on her face, while the other woman, standing behind, seemed confused.

"Ah, ja? That's me…" he said, wondering if this was ultimately good or bad news.

"While I must say it's a little uncanny that you were following us…" she started, and Klavier held his breath yet again, "I'll say I forgive you because I just heard your song on the radio."

Klavier exhaled yet again, but no answers came to him, only new revelations. "M-My song…?" he stammered. It wasn't like him to stammer.

"Yes!" she cried. "It would have been nice to hear some lyrics, but I'm not sure if that would be too much to hope for…?"

"But all my songs have lyrics…" Klavier muttered, more to himself than his apparent fans, and what could he do but come to the realization that the song she was referring to was the very same song he had played for Herr Apollo Justice? "You don't mean the song that changes pitch every minute or so, do you?"

"Yeah, that one. And where's that song's title, anyway?" The woman tilted her head in exasperation. Did it really matter so much whether or not the song had lyrics, or a title, or… legality tied to its name? He cursed Apollo mentally for acting without any sort of notification. Had he known he was going to be recorded and introduced to others, he would have conducted the song more formally.

"It was an improvisation piece for a… friend," Klavier admitted. "It wasn't meant to be heard by anyone else, let alone be put on the radio."

"Oh, Klavier, don't be so shy!" She lurched forward, grabbing him unashamedly by the shoulders to shake him slightly. "You could have grabbed everyone's attention the moment the world learned of your brother's talent as a defense attorney. That kind of things runs in families, you know. And then when everything happened"—she became quieter, here—"I'm sure people would have loved to have someone so pure and innocent to fall back on."

Klavier peered down at the ground. The cement below him radiated more confidence than he could personally muster. Truthfully, he had never thought of things that way. When a horror such as a murder takes place, what do people do? They look toward the positive side of life. Klavier could have been that positive side. He could have proved, long ago, that he was worthy of praise, and he could have done so without Apollo's efforts. And then he recalled: he _had_ tried. He had been denied by many Chief Prosecutors. But he had never focused his energy toward his music. Prosecutor first, musician second. Had he been thinking, dreaming, and wishing backwards this whole time?

"Well, thank you, dear _Fräulein_, for your compliments." He took a hand that was placed on his shoulder, and he held it gently, squeezed it, and then kissed its palm. "If I'm lucky, maybe I will see you in my dreams tonight. And I apologize for appearing like a stalker. I sincerely thought you were someone I knew."

"O-Oh, it's fine…" she said, clearly flustered. "I already said I forgive you. When you become a big rock star, I can say I've met you already. So keep on writing music, okay?"

"Will do. And hopefully the _Fräulein behind you will someday consider herself lucky, too," Klavier added, referring to the other woman who had said nothing thus far._

_"I… I wasn't there when she heard the song. Sorry…" she finally said, shifting her feet._

_Klavier nodded his head and did a courtesy bow to the lovely ladies who had replaced his disdain for Kristoph with a shred of hope. He turned, got back in his car, and drove away, all the while seeing the other two giggling to each other as they crossed the street and went to work. Klavier had been driving to nowhere at all previously, and he kept doing so, blasting the radio to see if he could catch Apollo's recording of him. He could have visited Apollo himself, could have affronted him about what had just happened, but he didn't want to ruin the suddenly cheerful mood he was in._

_Besides, if things kept going so well, he was bound to run into Apollo eventually, and he didn't really want to know what other tricks the defense attorney had up his sleeve, anyway. If anything, Klavier wanted to continue being surprised. _


	10. Chapter 10

It had been four days since Apollo had recorded the song and given it to that reporter. In the midst of his work Apollo had been playing his radio in the background, hoping to hear some kind of proof that would tell him Klavier was being noticed. He felt downtrodden every time the radio host spoke of something that wasn't Klavier—and really, he would have even settled for talk of Kristoph at this point, he was so impatient—and he wondered if he needed to concoct a more compelling argument before strolling into the press office again, shoulders held high and fists clenched with anticipation.

There was no need for that, he soon realized. There was talk of a curious new song that wasn't the station's usual taste in music, but they felt obligated to play it anyway due to its "artful sincerity." Apollo recognized Klavier's song instantly, and he shut the radio off before the song finished, before the host could say anything more. The only thing left to do was to wait for Klavier to storm into the Justice and Co. Law Offices, frothing with conflicted emotions.

Two days later and nothing had happened. Apollo began to fear that his assumptions of never seeing Klavier again were starting to take form. Apollo wondered if he was always this nervous and socially awkward. A new desire emerged: he wanted his bracelet to react to his own hypocrisy. It was hard to figure himself out when he was always so busy trying to figure out everyone else. To an observant man like Klavier, all his idiosyncrasies were decidedly obvious, but ever since he had given up his past in favor of the law, he had tried to forget his vices. It worked to a certain degree, but sometimes his weaknesses leaked through and he felt obligated to act on them before doing anything else.

Apollo knew a prosecutor's hours were very similar to a defense attorney's, and he chose to believe that a Chief Prosecutor's hours were the same, if not extended. And so he knew very well to show up at Miles Edgeworth's office during the early hours of the morning, just when the sun was starting to peak over the horizon. As expected, Mr. Edgeworth was there, sifting through some paperwork spread across his desk. What was unexpected, however, was Mr. Edgeworth's reaction.

"You look like a fan girl who's never seen me in person before when you barge into my office like that," he said, not even bothering to acknowledge Apollo's presence with a glance. Apollo viewed himself with the mirror hung on the back of the door he had just shut behind him in a hurry. His red suit was blindingly bright compared to the dark purple décor of the room, and so he supposed he stood out above everything else. His height was of no help and made his identity rather distinct, seeing as how he was the shortest of all the legal workers he had come across in years. Mr. Edgeworth easily looked down at him whenever they talked. Apollo was still confident when he thought they were decent courtroom coequals, though nothing could match Mr. Edgeworth and Mr. Wright's rivalry.

Apollo glanced at the room, since he couldn't bear to look Mr. Edgeworth in the face after that comment. A lofty bookshelf stood at his right, and the ladder (or the step-ladder, as Trucy would insist) pressed against it told Apollo that important contents were spread from bottom to top. A chessboard was close by, but there were no chairs to sit down at, indicating that it wasn't used very often. On the other side of the room was a dark purple couch and Mr. Edgeworth's prized possession—his prosecutor's outfit from his younger days—hung up in a delicate glass frame. In the back was his cluttered desk, dark purple drapes trimmed with a golden brown, just like the walls and hardwood floor, and an assortment of Steel Samurai action figurines, tea sets, and plants.

Apollo regained his composure. "An impressive place you've got here, Chief Prosecutor," he said, smirking to make his blunder less noticeable, though he knew Mr. Edgeworth wasn't prone to fall for such playtime manners.

"So you've never been here before. That explains everything." Mr. Edgeworth put down his papers, and the sigh that followed told Apollo he wasn't anywhere near done with them. Apollo would have been impressed had Mr. Edgeworth completed his paperwork this early in the day.

"Does it…?" Apollo fumbled.

"Yes. Your foolery never ceases to astound me. Objections loud enough for the deafest of judges to hear, the slamming of fists as if your hands were gavels themselves, and absurd last minute testimony and evidence that somehow always sheds light on the situation at hand. That is what I know of you from my prosecutors and my own time with you, Apollo Justice, and you have just added to that image of yourself by stumbling into my office."

Apollo rolled his eyes. "Ahah… Sounds like you really miss being in the courtroom with me."

"Last time I was in a courtroom was against Wright, where the only role you had was spewing out old sayings from your old mentor. It certainly didn't leave an impression."

Apollo wanted to object, but he knew that what Mr. Edgeworth had said was true. He remembered the Athena Cykes and Simon Blackquill trial quite well, as if it had only occurred recently. The doubt over whether or not Athena was the killer was gone—Mr. Wright had made sure of that, for Apollo's sanity and for the truth itself—but the act of missing Clay would never end. He still touched his eye and his arm sometimes, expecting bandages to be there, and he still reached behind him sometimes, expecting Clay's jacket to be just behind him. Out of everything that had transpired, however, Apollo regretted using Mr. Gavin's words as weaponry inside the courtroom. To mouth the very words of a psychopath made him feel like a criminal once more, like he had gone back to his younger days, pining to find a just conclusion to his story, but not having the means to do so.

Apollo couldn't help but wonder what Klavier would have thought of him if he had been at that trial.

"Hmm," Apollo mused.

"What is it, Justice?"

"Oh, nothing. I was thinking that, well, usually I'm cautious when I come into the prosecutor's office because I feel I'm too loud and I don't want to disturb anyone, least of all you. Maybe I should have let you down, though."

"I don't mean to look down on you, Justice. If you ask Wright, I give him just as hard a time about his bluffing and his useless inquiries during cross-examinations."

Apollo grinned at this. "I'll have to talk to him about it sometime, then. His stories about you are the best."

Mr. Edgeworth grinned back. "I'm sure you didn't come today to hear about Wright. What can I do for you?"

"Well, I have a question, actually…"

"Go ahead. And sit down, would you?"

Apollo did so. The couch was comfier than it appeared; he originally thought Mr. Edgeworth only chose it for its color. He watched as Mr. Edgeworth went to make tea and then he said, "Did you know Mr. Gavin had a younger brother?"

Mr. Edgeworth was just about to pour into a cup when he stopped for a brief moment, then resumed. "No, I did not."

"Am I the only one who knows him…?" Apollo whispered to himself. "Well, check out the recent papers. They've got his name written all over it."

And it was true. After Apollo heard Klavier's song on the radio and waited for Klavier to show up for a day, he checked the papers. The headlines included both Gavin names, and the story that came with it told about Apollo and Kristoph's relationship, then Apollo and Klavier's. Apollo had read it with a twinge of sorrow; he hadn't wanted Klavier to be fully known for his relationship to Kristoph, but he supposed that the family relation being mentioned was inevitable.

"Something tells me that was of your doing," Mr. Edgeworth said. He always was an intelligent, intuitive man, which made him a worthy opponent in Apollo's eyes.

"That's not the point. He's… How do I put this? He's"—Apollo could say many things (alluring, pretty, pleasant to be around, despite everything, everything he had been through) but he could only tell Mr. Edgeworth one thing—"a prosecutor."

"He's a prosecutor, and yet I've never heard of him before?" Mr. Edgeworth folded his arms concernedly.

"Yes… Well, that can be explained. Just—give me a minute." Admittedly, seeing Mr. Edgeworth outside of the courtroom was proving to be a difficult task, because normally, Apollo had a piece of evidence in the court record to fall back on, but not this time. The only proof that Klavier even existed at all was the vague emptiness that pulled at the various, separate corners of Apollo's mind whenever he wasn't actively thinking of where Klavier was. He conducted the outlines of a speech, but he settled on saying, "He's had bad run-ins in the past. He has a small amount of trials to his name. I think."

"You think, Justice?"

"That's what was implied, anyway. Is there a record for that sort of thing…?"

"That's not something that could be so easily dug up without some filing skills and some background to go off of. Your friend sounds like he has neither." Mr. Edgeworth took the tea—which he had left to cool near the beginning of their conversation—and handed it to Apollo. Apollo took it, trying to be gleeful, but he honestly wasn't sure how far he was going to get with a Chief Prosecutor. His authority, his personal weight, could only bring him so far.

Mr. Edgeworth was right, at any rate. All he had left was words. He could still foresee a glimmer of a proud moment, for both him and Klavier. Apollo sipped his tea, for appearances, before going on_: _"Imagine this. Well, uh, the most important thing you should know right off the bat is that the money I mention is both literal and a metaphor for dreams. You've been to Germany, correct?"

"That is correct."

"But a few years later you wanted to come back to the states—back to Los Angeles, of course. So you saved and budgeted for years and years so you'd have enough to come back. And eventually, it was time to come back. You took a plane, or a cruise ship, it doesn't matter. The point is that this mode of transportation probably needed to make numerous stops in different locations on the way to Los Angeles. The stops were meant to drop off passengers, to pick up some more, you know. Are you with me so far?"

It could have been Apollo's imagination, but he swore he saw Mr. Edgeworth lick his lips, sort of like a nervous tick that told Apollo he was somehow hitting a sore spot. "Yes," Mr. Edgeworth said after a while.

"Oh," Apollo said, withdrawn. "I don't know if I'm right or not, but humor me here. Imagine that you grew so frustrated because you wanted to reach Los Angeles as soon as possible. You paid more and more to get there much, much faster. All of your savings, all of that hard earned money you intended on using toward a home and food and such, was spent in a matter of days, due to your impatience. And—here's the kicker—when you reached Los Angeles, it wasn't even what you'd been hoping for. Okay. Now. I just put you in Klavier's shoes. He came from Germany at the age of eighteen, and his dreams were crushed in more ways than one."

"Justice," Mr. Edgeworth said swiftly, cuttingly, and he perhaps was prodding Apollo further when he went on and said, "people cannot be negotiated into believing the truth. They know the truth from the very beginning or not at all. Klavier Gavin knew his luck had run out from the get go, and he unconsciously knew about his brother's crime the moment he heard of the conviction. That being said, I cannot help him with his brother's troubles, or with anything else that's happening. He has to accept that, or he will be known as a hallucinatory lunatic."

"I think he's come to terms with everything, but that doesn't change the fact that others still think he's a… hallucinatory lunatic. Klavier may as well have been the murderer himself."

"And what, pray tell, do you expect me to do about it?"

"Hire him as a prosecutor, of course. Give him a chance. If he blows it, then you can have me punished for it instead. You can never have too many prosecutors, anyway…" Apollo trailed off, trying to make fun of the situation. He had failed at coming through with his own joke, if he could even call it that.

"You do realize the implications of your proposal?" Mr. Edgeworth said. He had still been standing up until this point, but he seemed more relaxed now that Apollo's true reason for showing up had been released. He sat behind his desk and turned on the lamp light to make up for the shadows peaking into the room.

"Yes. I'm willing to bet it all."

"Is that so?" Mr. Edgeworth said slyly, making Apollo think that they were going around in circles. Would Mr. Edgeworth ever run out of questions, or was that all he was made of as a Chief Prosecutor?

"I take that as an indirect way of asking me: why? I can tell you why. It's hard for you to judge me accurately when you don't know my past. I won't tell the specifics, but I can say that I was a pretty typical teenager. I thought I knew everything I needed to know about life. By my early twenties I realized I'd been a total idiot. I tried to put a bit more focus into my life. Back then, my brain wasn't necessarily my best friend so I tried very hard to kill it and replace it with something better. I'm going to hit thirty rather soon, and Klavier Gavin has just been the one to show me that everything I know is wrong. My perspective is perfectly indefensible, and I should have known better than to think my realizations would come to me through a decade benchmark like age. Age is an artificial measurement created by humans to make life seem more celebratory. So I can safely say I don't give a fuck anymore—pardon my language, or not—and that I hope to spend what little time remains by starting anew, one last time, and making things right."

A heavy, tension-filled silence spilled into the room. The sun had risen higher now, as if its goal all along had been to disclose Apollo's past. Apollo thought he'd gone too far; he had, at the very least, come dangerously close to tell this man, this relative stranger, all of the secrets he had been trying to keep from even the closest of allies.

Mr. Edgeworth's brow furrowed. He gulped the rest of his tea in one sip, and then he offered, in the most elegant voice Apollo had ever heard, "Bring him to me first thing Wednesday morning. I'll make my decision then."

Apollo cried, "Thank you, Mr. Edgeworth! I… I'm sorry"—he toned down his voice—"about that. It happens. As you know. Ahem…"

"I just hope you know what you're getting yourself into, Justice."

"Believe me, I know what you mean." Apollo simply breathed. It was Monday. It would be two days before he could see Klavier again. "My hands are so damn full."


End file.
